


Storm King's Thunder: Goddess Material

by valamerys



Series: Storm King's Thunder campaign fic [9]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Celestial (language), Gen, Sexual Tension, dark maiden shenanigans, more arguing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:22:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23094772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valamerys/pseuds/valamerys
Summary: Marin confronts Kitro about the Dark Maiden situation (which Phyn, for one, has taken in stride)
Series: Storm King's Thunder campaign fic [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1659832
Kudos: 10





	Storm King's Thunder: Goddess Material

**Author's Note:**

> The good news: the party survived the fight with Darthek and got the hell out of Menzoberranzan with Kitro's house in tow. The bad news: Kitro has definitely told everyone that Marin is the Dark Maiden.

When they met Kitro’s father, Marin had been naive enough to think he was simply mistaken about her, the way Kitro himself had been. For  _ everyone _ to believe it, though— to grasp her hands with reverence, murmur prayers as she walks by— is clearly no misunderstanding. 

But she wants to hear Kitro admit it.

Now that they’re outside the city, he stands slightly apart from the rest of his people, talking with his father in hushed Undercommon. Marin interrupts them with a benevolent smile, and loops an arm in Kitro’s as if they’re lord and lady, not wildly mismatched refugees of the Underdark. He tenses at the contact, like Rekhien and Theseus used to. Like he’s not used to being touched.

“Kitro,” She says faux-brightly, in the lilting tones of Celestial. “Let’s talk.”

Strictly translated, what she actually says is  _ I have an intention to speak with you,  _ conjugated in a way that denotes curtness and immediacy; the language of the gods is wordy and specific. It still feels strange falling from her tongue, not learned, simply known.

Kitro inclines his head, an acquiescence. Marin gives a gracious nod to Didek, who still looks at her with open rapture, and her stomach twists at the sight. She hasn’t earned adoration like that from anyone.

Marin leads Kitro towards the center of the cave, until they stand some twenty or thirty feet from the edge of the crowd. The drow rest or speak quietly amongst themselves; most are still standing, but some sit or crouch, bags and possessions set down. A few already meditate with that unnatural stillness she’s used to seeing only on Phyn, who sits on the far side of the space talking to Theseus. Rekhien lies unconscious on a bedroll next to them.

They could go further, find a little more privacy, but Marin wants to have this conversation in sight of everyone, even if they can’t understand it.  _ Because _ they can’t understand it.

Kitro slips his arm from hers at the earliest acceptable moment. “What is it you would like to talk about?”

Marin folds her arms across her chest and steels herself for confrontation. Her tail flicks at her feet. “Why do your people all think I’m the Dark Maiden?”

His brow creases, as if it wasn’t the question he was expecting. After he spent the entire trip down here snidely reminding her that she isn’t his goddess, did he really think she wouldn’t question the sudden assumption that she  _ is _ ?

He takes a long moment to respond. “When I spoke with them, I may have told them as such.”

“You lied to them, you mean,” Marin says hotly. Rekhien’s blood is still caked under her fingernails; any patience she might have had for this conversation evaporated hours ago.

“We needed their help to get into the Sanctum.” Kitro’s voice is remorseless, flat but for an edge of annoyance. “And they would not have been inclined to assist us for my sake alone.”

Marin grits her teeth. “Fine. They helped us. Your plan worked. Now please  _ tell them _ that I’m not your Maiden.”

He folds his arms to match hers and gives a thoughtful hum. “No.”

“They’re not stupid, Kitro; they’re going to figure it out!” Marin blurts. She didn’t truly expect him to do it just because she asked, but the flat refusal is infuriating. “As you’ve spent the last week reminding me, I am clearly not goddess material!”

Marin’s raised voice echoes off the stone, the Celestial songlike and otherworldly _ , _ even in her frustration. At the purity of the sound, some of the drow’s heads turn towards her, and Marin cringes; one woman makes a sign of worship, and others gape or whisper, expressions awed.

“You fit the description well enough for now,” Kitro muses, taking in the reactions.

She tamps down on her blossoming rage; he’s too smart and too stubborn for it to be useful. She has to hit him where it hurts.

“After what you did to them,” She says, quiet as death now, “Don’t they deserve the truth?”

Something raw flickers across his face, her reward for a nerve struck, but he masters it quickly. “Right now, the truth will only wound and confuse them.”

“So will finding out they were lied to and that I’ve been  _ impersonating their divine savior. _ ”

He exhales sharply and looks up at the ceiling— she’s getting to him. “Yes, they will likely realize when we get to the surface. But they’ll be angry at me, not you, I promise, and by then they will be  _ free _ .” 

He looks back to her and gestures broadly, a supplicating motion. It almost seems sincere. “Please just— pretend. Until we get there. A few more hours?”

“ _ A few more—?” _ Marin about chokes on her frustration. “It took us a  _ week _ to get down here, you think we’re going to get back in a few  _ hours _ ?!”

Kitro looks exhausted. “It is a joke, Marin.”

“ _ I am not joking, Kitro _ ,” Marin hisses, and gestures back to the rest of the Stormchasers. “Look at Rekhien! I don’t really feel like anything is funny right now!”

His pale eyes flicker cold in the dim light. “I just watched my brother die. Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re the only one here who is upset.”

He holds her gaze, and something inside Marin crumbles. She has so much power, now. Why does she feel so helpless? “I don’t want this responsibility.” 

It’s as close as she’ll come to begging him.

“And I don’t particularly want you to have it,” He says tersely. “I assure you, I don’t  _ enjoy _ watching you flail around in the Maiden’s name. But until we get to the surface, these are our burdens to bear.”

_ Our burdens to bear _ , as if it’s inevitable divine mandate rather than  _ his ongoing choices _ that have forced them both into a corner. Anger rushes back to Marin so swiftly that the prickle of electricity sparks in her fists, balled at her sides. Short of violence or something truly absurd— holding Kitro’s spellbook hostage briefly comes to mind— there is nothing she can do. She has nothing to leverage against him and she can’t bear the thought of acting cruelly to these people, even if the alternative means being complicit in a lie. Which, of course, Kitro knows. His calculations have banked on it.  _ Bastard _ .

Marin summons as much composure as she can, and lifts her head, expression haughty.  _ Holy _ . They’re still being watched. “If you won’t tell them what a liar you are,” She says coolly, “I guess you’ll have to come up with a different explanation for why your goddess is angry at you.”

Before he can retort, she draws back a hand and slaps him across the face. 

She looses a spark of lightning to gild the impact with a white-blue flare— not enough to hurt much, just enough to look impressive. And it does: a chorus of gasps rises from the crowd at the Maiden striking her disciple. Kitro reels back and stares at her in disbelief, his hand held halfway up as if to cup his cheek. He thinks better of the motion and lowers it.

“I see,” He says hollowly. Marin’s heartbeat hammers in her throat.

And with that he turns and leaves her, the murmurs of his people in his wake.

* * *

As the rush of confronting Kitro fades, Marin’s body  _ aches _ . She escaped the fight with Darthek with little more than bruises and scrapes, but the emotional and magical drain resonates in her muscles. 

Phyn props his chin in a hand as she rejoins the group. “I don’t know what that was about, but does this mean I move above Kitro in the acolyte hierarchy?”

Marin spreads out her own bedroll a few feet from Rekhien’s. The bandaged stump of his arm sticks out where he’s curled on his good side, and a fresh flood of thick black guilt sweeps through her. Some divine protector she is. 

“Please don’t encourage any of this, Phyn,” she says, her voice heavy. “You’re not my acolyte.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, moon maiden.”

Marin snorts despite herself as she settles down onto the bedroll. Her tail curls around her legs. “I don’t want Solonor to strike me down for stealing you.”

Humor tugs at his mouth. “She’s understanding. I can have two goddesses.”

Very little fazes Phyn, whether giant attack or being arrested or horrible betrayal. It figures he’d take this in stride too. At one point it had worried her, but she knows better, now— his calm isn’t because he doesn’t care. 

She sometimes wonders what would happen to the other three of them if Phyn wasn’t there to keep them from collapsing. 

Marin draws her cloak around her shoulders and sighs. “You can be my head acolyte if that makes you happy.”

“Oh,  _ excellent _ . I outrank you now, Theseus.”

Theseus sits at a slight remove; Marin can see him only in dim profile a few yards away, his back against a massive rock formation as he fiddles with some piece of his armor. He’s probably the only person who understood her conversation with Kitro— she’s heard him speak Celestial before.

“Did you hear all that?” She asks him. “With Kitro?”

His face is shadowed. “Most of it.”

A resentful heat stirs in her chest. There’s a conversation she needs to have with Theseus, too, eventually. Right now, though, there’s nothing left in her; even her anger feels far away. She hadn’t meant to go to sleep so quickly, but now that she’s lying down, her eyes hurt with exhaustion.

Phyn must notice. “I’m staying up for a bit with the guards,” he says gently, and the joking tone is gone. “If you want to get some rest.”

“Yeah.” It comes out gravelly, Marin’s throat rough. “Thanks.”

Phyn gives her a close-lipped smile. His fingers work through the end of one of his braids, aimlessly redoing it; Lulu dozes at his knee. “Go to sleep, Marin.”

Marin slips into a fitful sleep and she dreams of a ship in a storm.


End file.
